


until then i remain

by Catallii, jubilantly



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Epistolary, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catallii/pseuds/Catallii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubilantly/pseuds/jubilantly
Summary: After Cosette & Marius' wedding, Valjean leaves, immediately, for England; Cosette has no intention of letting him disappear.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent & Jean Valjean, Cosette Fauchelevent & Marius Pontmercy & Jean Valjean, Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	until then i remain

**Author's Note:**

> Writing by jubilantly; art by Sylla.
> 
> \---
> 
> author's note: I saw "epistolary" in the prompts list and was immediately possessed by some unfortunate thing, but anyway: thank you mods for this fest and for deciding Cat and I would make a good team, thank you Cat for being the best to work with, and thank you Tia for letting me name a fictional cat after your real cat.
> 
> \---
> 
> artist's note: thank you to jubilantly for being an absolute joy to work and talk with (and for hitting me repeatedly in the feels), and to byjuxtaposition for your absolutely invaluable feedback, without which these illustrations wouldn't be nearly as good as they are!
> 
> \---

Cosette —

As requested, I am sending a letter to assure you that I have arrived safely in England and am settling in well.

I hope that you and your husband are well and happy.

— U. F.

—

Papa, you must know that my request wished for just a little more than a repeating of the request back at me. I shall have to ask questions, and furthermore I shall have to pretend that you did your duty and asked after what I am doing with my days. I do appreciate well wishes, but I should hope you’d be interested in the specifics of my doing well! (And yes, I am doing well, as is my dear Marius.)

Is it not enough that you barely talked to me before the wedding, not even when I was supposed to believe that you are not my father? That is something you shall make up for. And besides, to leave for England after all, so suddenly, as if no time had passed since that plan, to leave us directly after the wedding! I thought you would pay us a visit, the next morning, and you did, yes, but that was hardly a visit, that can hardly be called a proper visit, not a proper visit to a newly-made Baroness, to come in and not take off your hat and announce a departure to England that very night, and be out of the door already before your poor daughter can say more than that you should write her, and look how that turned out.

I am glad that you have arrived safely, and I hope you are not just settling in well but are happy, even though I do not like the implication that you will be staying for long enough to need to settle in. When will I see you again? You will have to write more letters, if you intend to stay away.

In any case, I shall write you more letters, because although nothing of note happens, already there are a thousand small things I want to tell you about, because for as long as I can remember, I have always told you about my days.

Happiness is a strange thing, and even stranger to have everything change at the same time and still be happy — it will, I suppose, take me a while to get used to even such unimportant things as the placement of furniture in this house, and in the meantime I will stub my toes every day, and Marius will have to buy me new shoes, because my second-favourites have scuff marks from where they greet the desk every morning and afternoon and evening and several times in between, if I am distracted.

And I am distracted, oh how I am distracted, because I am happy, Papa. Happier still if you were here, but I am happy. To have Marius by my side always! There is something indescribable about getting to know him more every day, and then he is still not entirely recovered but he is getting better every day, and the sun shines in through our window every morning and wakes me joyfully as if I need more joy, as if I am not already overfull with joy, but there the sun is every morning and there goes my foot catching the desk’s leg without souring my day, because how could it matter, when I am happy, I am happy, I am happy.

Do you think I could have some of my things from the house in the Rue Plumet brought over? Ridiculously, what I miss most are my curtains, though that may be because the ones in this house are horrendous. Don’t tell grandfather.

Well, don’t tell him that, but you may tell him whatever else you please. Maybe you should write to him too, practice your letter-writing so that I can get better letters soon.

Do write to me first and foremost, though, and tell me about England, and about crossing the sea, and about how you are and how much you miss me, and what your plans are now. Are you speaking English? Is it not dreadful to have to fumble for words all day? I thought about you having to speak English and imagined having to say all the things I say in a day in English, and Papa, I would have to be very quiet if I could only speak English or say nothing.

Do the English eat well? I ask because I am eating exceedingly well, and because I know you are prone to not eating well. That’s a second promise you’ll have to make me, first that you will write longer letters, and second that you will eat well while I am not there to make sure of it.

Two promises, that’s not so many, is it?

Be happy, in England, and don’t forget me.

— Cosette

—

Cosette —

I apologize, then, for not doing my duty. It was not my intention to disappoint you, only there has not been anything on my journey that I thought would be of interest to you.

And are you not busy, either way, with your husband? It has, after all, still not been even two weeks since your wedding. You have a new family and a new household, and surely invitations and visits, in between which you should not have to make time for tales of my uneventful journey or uneventful stay in England.

It’s good that you are happy. I am glad.

The key to the house in the Rue Plumet should be where we left it, so there should be no obstacle to you taking whatever you still want from that house.

Yes, I am eating well. And yes, my English is sufficient. Do not worry about me.

— U. F.

—

Papa, one should think you have never seen a proper letter in your life, only I know you got mine, and that was a proper letter. Is not the point of letters like these to tell each other unimportant things as one would at the dinner table if not for the distance?

Anyway, if you had stayed here, you wouldn’t have to worry about boring me with tales of England! And I would have all my family here, which was rather what I had hoped for.

As it is, I have never been to England so I doubt your tales of it would bore me, and I am missing part of my family, and so I must implore the missing part of my family, my dear father, again, to write longer letters to tide me over until your return, and to give me something to read to Marius when we get our mail that will actually concern him — I have had to read him parts of letters from old school friends of mine, and his face becomes rather blank when I do!

You, I suppose, might be slightly more interested in those correspondences, because you met those friends of mine, saw them nearly as much as you did me, during our time in Petit-Picpus. Both of the Maries have been writing me, as you know, but they have been writing me more now that I have a fixed address and can respond immediately, and now that I have so much news to pass on, and if you remember Juliette, the one who you caught stealing strawberries with me, she has been writing me, because the taller of the Maries (do you know her family name? It will apparently change soon either way, but I only remember referring to her as the taller one when talking to you about her, so the taller one she will continue to be referred to as) passed on my address, and news of my wedding.

I missed Juliette more than I thought I did, in the time since I left the school, since we parted ways, and I missed more of her life and she more of mine than I would have thought possible, but it is a joy to rediscover how well we understand each other, and a joy to have this chance to get to know her once more. Do you know, we also got in trouble for whispering in our beds when we should have been asleep, more than once, and it felt like the end of everything, I remember that, how afraid I was the first time we got caught, but Juliette wasn’t ever afraid, or at least she never seemed afraid, but now I am not so afraid of things, and I can see that she isn’t braver than any other brave girl, though still brave, and still just as kind and just as witty as she was, and full of puns, and newly fond of books.

We have started and will, I hope, continue writing very long letters. I suppose that much was already obvious, from the last paragraph, but there it is again. And with all this writing, I have found that I enjoy writing letters and receiving them, too. I spend more of my time writing letters, suddenly, than I would ever have thought.

Grandfather says letter-writing is a good habit for a young lady to have. I am, I admit, not sure if this is his opinion, the opinion of his time, or a result of his wanting to say only kind things to me. In any case, I do think it is a good habit to have, for anyone.

And there end the things I can tell you about what I have done, I think, except that I can tell you that I continue to have trouble with the placement of the desk, and I have not yet gone to the Rue Plumet, but I have talked to Marius about it, and told him about my dislike of the curtains here. He agreed about the curtains, and then looked very aghast at his own words, for reasons I do not know. It was a little ridiculous, Papa, and I demand that you come back so I have someone to look at and hold back laughter with when Marius is ridiculous. I know you wouldn’t laugh, because you do not laugh at people, but I think it would be a good thing for you to make an exception — he is in most ways your son now, after all, and so you should know he is ridiculous, and not take him seriously when he tries to deny it.

We are going to the opera next week, and I am looking forward to it, though the planning did prompt rather a lot of near-arguments about political differences in this household.

I have many things to learn in this world still, I think, and I think also that I could use your help.

But stay where you are, if it pleases you, away from the arguments and the pesky furniture lying in wait for people’s unsuspecting feet; I shall be happy so long as you write me.

Write me, Papa, and tell me about England.

— Cosette

—

Cosette —

I am pleased to hear that you have your friends from the convent still. I do remember them, and if your husband does not want to hear about them, I will read about them as much as you want me to.

You asked about England. I shall do my best, then.

England is not, at first glance, very different from France, though the place where I am is very different from Paris. Paris is so large and busy, a proper city, and here I am in a small town, and even the shortest walk can take me out into fields and hills, in any direction.

You would like it, I think, if you and your husband ever decide to travel to England — it is very green, and I have been told there are sights to see, for those who are here as tourists.

I have been welcomed more warmly than I would have thought a stranger who does not speak the language well would be, and have done my best to be worthy of this warm welcome, but I don’t think any kindness from me can repay their kindness even halfway.

There are no anecdotes I can tell you, I think, except that there is a little boy here who gets himself into trouble twice daily, thrice if it’s raining says his grandmother, and he was the first person I met in this town — he was up a tree, and rather not happy about it, and I ruined a coat climbing up to help him, replacing which will be difficult, but he was grateful in a sort of gap-toothed dignified way, and that is more important than the coat.

I do not know why this seemed of interest to you, but it did remind me of you — you mentioned your convent memories, so I suppose you might remember the trees you climbed.

And that, I think, is where my attempt at giving you a proper letter ends.

— U. F.

—

Papa, Papa that was almost a letter and I have read it thrice and imagined you going on your walks and climbing that tree to rescue the little boy.

Do you know the boy’s name? You must, if you’ve spoken to his grandmother. I don’t think I’ve met many grandmothers, unless the oldest of the mothers in Petit Picpus count, and I rather think they would not like to be counted as grandmothers.

But Papa, to wonder at people welcoming you with kindness, as if you are not kind to people without any reason, as if you have not taught me to be the same, so I ask you, why would they not be kind, and too, why would they not be kind if you have been nothing but kind, if you have in fact saved one of them! As is your habit, it feels like. I never know, but I think you saved me once, did you not? I never remember well, except that I was little and I was cold and there was a great darkness, and then there was your hand. I don’t know what that darkness was, a dream or a real darkness, and if your hand is your hand, in that memory, or a metaphor, but you did give me your hand to hold onto, I feel very sure of that, and then something was better. I don’t know what that darkness was, and I don’t think I want to, but I do remind myself often of my Papa saving me, because that is important to me.

Was I gap-toothed like that boy in the tree, when you saved me? I looked at my face in the mirror last night trying to see if I could still see the child I must have been, if I could imagine myself gap-toothed, and all that did was make me laugh, which of course showed me very clearly that I am not gap-toothed now, and that was the end of trying to imagine.

I am not terribly good at imagining in general — I cannot imagine away the curtains that are so unpleasant to look at, nor can I imagine what you might have saved me from. And I have said I do not want to know what you saved me from, but if I change my mind someday, will you tell me?

Anyway, we will go to the house in the Rue Plumet tomorrow finally, after much indecisiveness (on Marius’ part, and then in sympathy on my part — some pair we make, next time I will be decisive before he can dither and then we shall both get more things done). I shall have my curtains, and the ribbons I forgot when we packed my things before the wedding, and a moment to sit in my garden and remember, and I shall in addition have to despair when I see the state of house and garden, dusty and overgrown respectively. Maybe I will have to go back to that house more. I miss it, I think, a lot, more than I thought, rather the way I have missed Juliette, whom I will have to tell that she is like my favourite house and garden, and she will either be delighted or make fun of me, and either will be good.

Do you remember, she was taller than me the first two years of our time at school together, and then I grew like a weed, like one of your beanstalks, and she didn’t speak to me for a day when she realized I’d grown to be taller than her? I remembered yesterday, when grandfather was surprised that I could reach the higher shelves.

Strange, how memories resurface, of such small and wonderful things. You must know the feeling, given that that boy reminded you of me.

Do write me if you remember more, because I would like to read about it — I liked to read about it this time. Still, your letter was much shorter than mine, and not very poetic, though an attempt was made I would concede. I demand a proper letter next time. Write to me of your memories, and of the troubles your small friend gets into, and what you see on your walks, and I shall respond in kind.

— Cosette

—

Cosette —

I suppose, then, that I owe you a proper letter, but you will have to bear with me — I have no experience writing proper letters, and people are not in the habit of wanting me to tell them at length about the mundane happenings of my life or the lives of those around me.

Presumably my description of England was lacking, too, and so I shall start there once more.

If you have heard people say the weather in England is terrible and not believed them, I am sorry to say that they were right — there has been nothing but rain the past week, and the sky is always grey and very close to the earth, it seems. It’s different from seeing rain in Paris, and that is, again, more about the contrast of city and countryside, but nonetheless, it’s different.

The town I have settled down in for now is not very large, I have told you that, and so I get to take walks much more often than I used to. I would tell you about them, but the rain has been keeping me inside. I should have brought books, maybe, but that felt and feels frivolous, so I have not been reading, and I have been staying inside except when someone’s roof needs fixing or I am invited to a meal and not allowed to refuse.

You asked about the boy’s name, and I have in fact not been able to find out — he calls himself the names of knights of legend, a different one depending on how he’s feeling that day, and his family calls him terms of more or less endearment, again depending on how he is behaving that day.

They do not allow me to refuse their invitations, and so I am witness to rather a lot of this odd changing of names. It feels wrong to take all of this kindness given and not be able to return it, but my lodgings are fit for me and not for visitors, so I bring food, and get scolded and thanked, and do my best to answer the little knight’s questions and prevent his falling off a roof.

You never were in danger of falling off a roof, and I am very grateful for that. You did, however, ask questions, at certain ages, even more than you do in these letters, and I hope I answered them well. And yes, you were gap-toothed, but not like the little knight. All children are gap-toothed in different ways, I think, but then I do not remember this part of things very well, and so it is perhaps not surprising that you cannot remember it at all, especially because you did not, I think, ever have a mirror when you were at the age of being gap-toothed.

Was not the shorter Marie good at drawing? If she remembers what you looked like as a child, maybe she could draw you a portrait, and then you won’t have to imagine. I’m afraid my own drawing skills are more than just lacking, and so I cannot give you this.

If you do ask someday, I don’t think I could refuse to tell you about that darkness you do not remember well. I would rather not have to remind you, or have to explain all that surrounds it, but I will not refuse to answer your question, and I will try to answer it truthfully.

— U. F.

—

Papa, you wrote me a proper and good letter! The desk was so happy to get to keep that letter in its drawer that I have not tripped over its leg since.

Most of all, I am happy to hear more from you and about you. Thank you, Papa, and thank you for answering my questions and promising that you will continue to do so.

But to move on, because I know you do not know how to respond to thanks, to move on and speaking of furniture: We are trying to make a decision regarding the purchase of a pianoforte. There isn’t one in this house, or rather I think there was one that was hidden and sold quickly and with shame when I asked, because it must have been old and broken, because nobody played here. I think Marius’ mother played when she was young, or that is what some of grandfather’s remarks sounded like, but talking about her is at least halfway forbidden, in this house, and so I do not try to ask, usually.

Anyway, I miss playing music, and singing. All my sheet music, I think, is still left in one of the places we lived together, though I don’t know which. It is possible I scattered it across all of Paris, leaving some in one house and the rest in another, and in that case I must apologize to you, that your neatness and the good upbringing you gave me have, it appears, come to nothing; I do not even want to imagine what the good mothers of Petit Picpus would think of my carelessness, or in the first place of the amount of my possessions. Grandfather and Marius have both already offered to buy me new sheet music.

When you are back, whenever that may be, I will play for you, and I am determined to be at least as good as when last I played, so there. You have to return but I will no longer demand it to be as soon as possible, and Marius has to stop hem-ing and haw-ing about the pianoforte.

Regarding the portrait: I do think I will ask Marie, but maybe I will ask her when she is here, because she has promised to visit soon.

That is an event that is set to happen, and a trip to the countryside is planned, vaguely, for a few months from now, and the pianoforte may be bought if we ever decide, but aside from these plans which will bring change, my life has settled, I think, and I have settled in this house, mostly, beyond just having grown used to where the desk stands. It isn’t my favourite house, Papa, but maybe that will take more time, and it does have a garden, which is, grandfather says, mine if I want it.

So I have a garden, and I am gardening; and I am teaching Marius to garden, and it is utterly delightful. He will never be a gardener, I think, but he is very impressed by my knowledge and ability, though I know I do not have much of either. Not like you! I miss you often, but today I miss you like this: I forgot in which season I should plant the flowers I want to have in my garden.

You will not have a garden in England, I presume, if you live in a way that does not even allow for visitors, but when you get to take your walks, when it isn’t raining, do you see flowers? What kinds of flowers are there in England? Are there flowers yet? Spring has only just stuck its nose through the door, here, I feel like — hence the rush to get started on gardening, before it is too late and everything grows or doesn’t grow in whichever way it pleases.

There are other things I meant to write you about, I’m sure, but I have told you some of what I am doing and I have asked you questions, and now I have a visitor and need to finish my letter, so I will leave you with this: I am well, and Marius is well, and I hope you are well and stay that way, until I see you again.

— Cosette

—

Cosette —

You asked about the flowers, and I am neither a gifted writer nor an artist, so it will have to do that I picked some for you and pressed them. I don’t know what the journey to Paris will do to them, but maybe you will still find some joy in them even if they arrive worse for wear.

The rain has let up a little, and everything is even more green, and I am happy to see the green whenever I go outside — I, too, have settled in, I think, at least enough to no longer be confused by the repeating patterns of daily life here, and enough to be as familiar with this green as the green in the Luxembourg.

Do you still take walks there, or I suppose take them again? With your husband now, who, I don’t know if he is aware of my knowing this, was rather unsubtle in looking at you all that time ago when we took walks.

It is a little strange to think of that now, but I suppose there is humour in it now, too, that wasn’t at the time. I am, in general, finding it easier to see the humour in what people do — little Lancelot, as he is called today and most days, delights in laughing at people, who mostly don’t mind, and is laughed at much but doesn’t mind it, and as I hear him explain without prompting what the world looks like to him, and as I get to know the people of this town better, I feel like I am learning something.

That is, I fear, not what I should be writing about in my letters.

If you want to move your pianoforte from the Rue Plumet, I am sure that could be arranged, though it may be some effort. I remember how you like music, and it would be a pity if you had to wait longer than necessary to have your music again.

I hope the visit you got when you were ending that letter was a good visit; in any case it is good to know that you are truly no longer stuck with only my company.

This letter, I know, is shorter than yours, but I am getting used to writing letters, and I hope you will still be glad to receive it. I will try again and do better next time.

— U. F.

—

Papa —

there is no need to apologize for a shorter letter, now that I know you will write long letters, and will answer my letters always. And — you should write whatever you feel like saying, in your letters.

Anyway. Spring seems to have arrived in England, if those flowers are any indication, and Papa, spring has arrived in Paris in all its glory, and Aunt is sneezing and Marius is sneezing and I am anxious with how much I want to run unladylike through suddenly-overgrown meadows.

I picked some flowers for you and we pressed them in a very heavy book, clumsily, because Marius has never pressed flowers and I haven’t in a long time, and they turned out a right mess, so we picked some more, and tried again, and Aunt helped us, this time, so you do get some good and pretty ones. There’s spring in Paris for you, sent all the way to England, to remind you of home.

I wish you were here to take me on walks. Marius takes me on walks, and yes we have been to the Luxembourg, and remembered fondly seeing each other there when we didn’t yet know each other, but the walks aren’t the only part I like, and much as I adore taking walks with my husband, I would like to take walks again too with the other most important person in my life.

Do you know, Marius has been asking me about you, and about my childhood, and I knew that he had grown up without parents, but to think, that I got the best of fathers, and he got none — you have to return, he has to have his father back just as I do, but he never got to have you in the first place, and that will not do.

He is very embarrassed that you caught him watching me all that time ago — I told him over breakfast, as the receiving of letters usually goes, I read it and then I read bits of it out loud that I think you wouldn’t mind him hearing and he wouldn’t mind hearing, and I was laughing when I read him this particular paragraph, and he was very very red in the face. But despite that, despite the embarrassment and despite how you do not know him, I have a feeling, and my feelings are often right, that you would like each other, and he does so deserve a father as good as you, and you deserve a son as good as him, Papa.

He will not be as easy to adopt as your little Lancelot, but trust me, please, and try, when you return. That is one more promise, but you can ask me to promise something, and then we will be even.

The visit that I ended the letter for, by the by, was not a particularly good one, but it was not very long either, thankfully. Please do not tell grandfather that I dislike his acquaintances, but heavens I dislike most of them that I have met so far, and I dislike that I dislike them, but they dislike enough people they don’t know that I feel justified, a little, in disliking them upon getting to know them.

That is not a cheery note for the end of the letter. I apologise, and leave you with this: imagine, if you will, me feeding the birds in the garden, and Marius looking on as if he has never seen a bird or indeed a Cosette.

I am happy, Papa, I am.

And I am awaiting the next letter!

— Cosette

—

Cosette, I hope you know how much joy your letters bring me, but it has also occurred to me, or rather been brought to my attention by a farmer who calls himself my friend quite vehemently, that I should tell you regardless.

I am proud to have been allowed to be your father, and happy to, and sometimes disbelieving, that someone like who you grew up to be holds me in any kind of esteem.

There could be no better daughter than you, nobody anybody would rather raise, and I hope I have done an at all adequate job of it. There are so many fathers who could have raised you better and given you more, and I can only hope that I did the best I could, in the absence of anyone else to do better.

You do not have to promise anything in return for my promises, but if you want to promise something, promise to do your best to be happy. That is all I want, for you to be happy. And I do know that I don’t know your Marius well enough to be able to judge his character; I trust your judgement.

That being said, the most important part being said, I will have to put this letter down, for now, to accompany Sir Gawain on a quest to a pond just outside the town, where he wants to catch frogs and needs someone to keep an eye on him; when I am back, I will continue writing.

— When I am back, that is, and no longer covered in frogspawn. That shall suffice as description of how the quest went. Or maybe not, because it makes it sound like the quest was unsuccessful, and it was not. Sir Gawain caused a great many frogs a great amount of confusion, and nobody fell into the pond, and we were back in time for dinner, and now I am back at my desk and writing to you, whose childhood adventures, as far as I know, were free of frogs.

It is strange, to live this life now that is so different from what I have known. I don’t know how to explain it, but I do suppose you will know what I mean.

Thank you, by the way, for the flowers — I am keeping all your letters, but I am keeping them even more carefully now.

You also mentioned Marius’ aunt, your aunt, helping you with the flowers, and I admit, I am surprised. From what you have told me, or not told me I suppose, I assumed that you did not like each other much. But it is good if you do like each other, of course. Especially if there are visitors in your house whom you do not like, I am glad for each person you have whom you do like.

I hope you have more agreeable visits soon, and I hope you are well, and your husband is well.

— U. F.

—

Papa — I would not have had any other father. Don’t be silly. I love you, I do, and you are to return soon so I can glare at you for not believing it.

And even if you don’t return you will have been the best father I could have had, and I will write letters to you as long as you respond and even if you stop responding. There, that is a promise.

Marie is visiting this week, and I am excited beyond belief, and I suspect we will turn into schoolgirls just as soon as we see each other again, and laugh too loudly and talk too quickly and ignore everyone around us. It will be very unladylike, and grandfather if he witnesses any of it will be shocked, and Marius will be confused, and it will be terribly fun, and I will be unladylike as I please if I please to, because you have told me to always be happy, and that will make me happy.

Sometimes making others happy makes me happy, but sometimes, Papa, maybe we have to just be happy by ourselves. I learned this years ago I think, but I am having to relearn it, in this new house, and I think maybe you need to learn it, so I am telling you.

Speaking of this household — Aunt does like me better now, I do think, yes, and we have been spending more time together, and going to church together.

It feels like she is family, now, properly, and it’s strange, all the things family can be.

She has been turning pages for me when I play the pianoforte (we did acquire one, I forgot to tell you!) and, can you believe it, telling me about her sister.

The more I hear about the woman who would have been in some world at some point also my mother, the more I think I know where Marius gets most of who he is from, but then I do wonder, too, where his mother got it, with grandfather and Aunt being as they are.

That sounded like I do not like Aunt, and I do, I very much do, and I can tell she didn’t hate her sister, not in any way that mattered, or not in any way that was about her sister rather than about her, she is just… not like her sister seems to have been.

How do all these dreaming souls come from this house where dreams are so often put into cupboards and never looked at again?

I don’t know if Aunt would want me to talk about her like this, but Papa, I have to talk to someone about it, and I trust you to understand and to keep it to yourself, and to not judge her for whatever you take from my confused writing.

And I am confused, I am, more and more, as I start to understand the family I have acquired and the world that made this family what it is.

I do like living here, and I do like this family, I do, I do, this is a letter in which I am very unintentionally very impolite, but… someday, I want to live elsewhere. I want to choose my own house, and live there with Marius and with you, and have a garden that is mine.

Though I do have a garden here, and the garden is doing well, but the garden isn’t the point.

Papa, there are so many choices to make in life, and I want to make them myself. Is that something I am allowed to want?

— Cosette

P.S. — the frogspawn story amused me greatly, I am sorry Papa, and I am also sorry to say that while there were no frogs in my childhood, I very clearly remember toads.

—

Cosette, you are allowed to want whatever you like. I hope I never made you feel like things should not be your choice, but I fear someone else taught you that before I ever got to try my best to raise you, and then my best could never have been enough.

The little knight, not yet seen today and therefore unnamed, makes me think of you often, but sometimes what I think of is how different he is from you, how carefree in ways you were not at his age, and again I worry that I did not do as much as I should have.

I am glad that his frog quest served at the very least for your amusement, and you will be happy to hear that he has since put a frog in a visiting cousin’s bed, put a frog in his own bed and cried about it, and tried to convince everyone that his least favourite food looks and tastes just like frogspawn. If you were this obsessed with your toads, you hid it well.

By the time this letter reaches you, Marie will have visited you, and I hope it was a good visit.

Those are all the things that I have answers to, from your letter. The rest made me think a lot, but I have not arrived at any thoughts that are for sharing.

Even if I had thoughts worth sharing, it feels like my French is just a little rusty, a little forgotten, while my English is better, but nowhere near good enough to make up for forgetting French words. It is a very strange experience, as are many other things about being in a new country and nearly used to it but only nearly.

Spring is very much here now to the point of making it very clear what summer will look like, and once more I feel like you would like it here, if you ever decide to visit England. Would your husband like England, do you think? Does he speak English? I have been thinking, too, about how little I know of someone who is so important to you.

That is not to say, all of that, that I am asking you to visit me — I am not making demands upon your time and funds. I merely think of you sometimes, and am not good at writing letters yet.

There are different flowers now, and so I am sending you more flowers; the unbloomed ones were chosen by the little knight, who asked about my family and would not stop asking until I had been sufficiently entertaining, at which point he ran off, but he returned to help me with the flowers. Forgive him for having strange aesthetic sensibilities — he is but a little boy who cares for nothing but frogs and nonsense.

I hope you and your husband are well.

— U. F.

—

Papa, you are right, I received your letter just after I had received a visit from Marie.

It was a good visit, first of all, I want to tell you that; it was a very good visit, a little strange because we hadn’t seen each other in so long, and a little strange because she met Marius and grandfather and my aunt, and you can imagine the first impressions made by all of them, but after the strangeness it was a very good visit, and we laughed a lot, and I remembered about the portrait and she did leave me a drawing of myself as a child. I liked seeing it, but I am sending it to you, because if it is a good likeness, I thought you might like to have it.

On that note, of sending things — thank you, and pass on my thanks to the little knight too, for the flowers, and for the stories. I continue to be very happy to receive both.

I am very distracted today, and so I shall forget to answer some part of your letter, and I hope you will forgive me, but I can answer your questions about Marius.

It is indeed strange that my two favourite people know so little of each other, but while I have told him much of you, I have told you too little of him.

He does speak English, though he reads it much better than he speaks it, but then he reads much more than he speaks. I don’t know if he would like England, which is to say, I do not know if he would like travelling. I don’t think this house is his favourite, and I don’t know if he has a particular attachment to Paris or to any place at all, but I do think he likes to have things be the way he knows them, to wake each day in a place that will only surprise him a little, and Papa, I cannot imagine he would know how to pack for a long journey, or at the very least he would drive himself to despair in the process, multiple times over. I am exaggerating a little, but only to say: I don’t think he would choose travelling for himself. He would go for me, but I don’t think it would be his idea to go.

Which reminds me, and I am sorry to bring this up, if you do not want me to, of how surprised I was by your travelling to England.

Are you happy, in England, all the way over there away from everything familiar? It seems like a great adventure, to be someplace new, to be someplace so different, I’ve said that before I am nearly sure, but it seems a little frightening, and… at odds with the way I have always seen you, I suppose. We moved a lot, yes, but never this far. We always returned home. We always stayed close to the places we had grown fond of.

What is England like? I’ve asked a dozen times now, I think, but you answer differently every time, and it seems right that a whole country would need more than one answer, and I like reading the different answers.

How is your farmer friend? You did not tell me a name for him. Is his name so dreadfully English, then, that you do not know how to spell it?

I am all questions today, Papa, and no entertaining stories, but I have been led to believe that you are used to me being all questions.

— Cosette

—

Cosette —

I am glad the visit was good, and glad to know a little more of your Marius, and shall endeavour to answer your questions well, as always. You were all questions, and I will try to write you a proper letter with the answers.

Yes, I am happy here in England. The language still gives me trouble, but not as much as in the beginning, and I have been called someone’s friend often enough to believe it, now. I don’t think I can tell you what a strange thing that is for me, and telling you is strange in and of itself. The process of writing letters and the stay here in England have changed things about me that I did not know could change, and I am happy, and that too is strange.

I am very tempted to cross out the last paragraph, to start a new letter entirely, but I will only tell you that you can disregard that part of the letter if you wish.

Which is to say: I am happy, and England is still hard to describe.

It is nearly summer now — I have been told that the summer itself may well be less like summer than the late spring is, but summer will be summer even if it rains, and I will be content with whatever weather I end up with.

The little knight’s family (still unnamed too, I am sorry, and I will not name anyone in this letter because there would be too many names at once) continues to have me over for dinner, and for assisting with the roof and the children and all manner of other things, and I like all of them very much, and they are all kinder to me than I can believe. The little knight has another cousin now, still a baby, who is very small and wide-eyed and, to her cousin’s disappointment, does not do much of anything. He has so many other cousins to play with and to annoy, but it bothers him endlessly that this one can’t join in yet. When will she be grown, he will ask, and his aunt will laugh at him, and his grandmother will tell his father that he has raised a child as annoying as he himself was.

You are right that I do not know how to spell my farmer friend’s name. I do not know how to ask, or how to otherwise get myself out of this predicament without making a fool of myself, and so I must continue to mumble when I say his name, and hope that my accent hides my confusion. But he is well, as he always is, and nothing can make him less content and wise, or if anything can it has yet to be invented.

I feel nearly at home here, now, in a way I didn’t in Paris, but that may well be because this town has so thoroughly adopted me as a part of it.

There is a cat that has taken to following me when I walk down the street — it is young, new to being out and about, I would presume, and has chosen to trust my choices in walking paths. It is orange, a strange creature.

I am still not used to the way I am happy here, but yes, Cosette, I am happy in England.

— U. F.

—

Papa —

thank you for your letter.

I am, very selfishly, I know, do not take me seriously, a little jealous of the people who get to be with you in your happiness, but I am glad you are happy, and glad that you are writing me about it.

England sounds, the way you describe it, like the most wonderful place in the world, right after maybe our old garden, which will always be my favourite.

Papa, I do think I love Paris too much to ever love any other place, but your town in England sounds like a good place to love.

I must, do excuse me, skip several paragraphs to focus on the one about the cat first and foremost. If your cat friend will tolerate it, scratch him behind the ears for me. Do you scratch cats behind the ears? We have never met a cat while we were together, I don’t think, and so it will be news to you that I like cats, and I do not yet know what you think of cats.

Marius does not know how to approach cats, but he does like them, although they make him sad — we were walking some weeks ago, I did not tell you at the time, and crossed paths with a cat that seemed to know him, and he grew very sad very suddenly, and said that a friend of his knew that cat and spoiled it whenever it deigned pay a visit to his lodgings. I asked about the friend, and Marius told me more, but I will not tell you about that part.

I miss you, but I think if you left England they would miss you very much over there, and I do not want to imagine the little knight sad. Still, I miss you, and I hope you visit soon.

This may end up a short letter, for once, not a proper letter from me, because I thought of how I miss you and then I did not know what else to say, because tales of visits or curtains or jam incidents seem out of place when I am, today, even though I pretend to be otherwise, a little unhappy, and a little lonely, and confused by the house I live in and the world that is so much more complicated, Papa, than anyone taught me, even though you did your best, and I want you to be here so that I can ask my questions and hear the answers, without delay and distance.

This is not one of the questions I would ask if you were here, but I will ask it regardless — in rereading the letter before your last, I found something strange: the mention of someone else raising me before you did, and doing a bad job of it? I think that was what you meant, but Papa, what did you mean?

I feel very silly, and shall, I fear, remain that way for a long time. I hope you forgive me.

— Cosette

—

Cosette —

the cat has been named Archibald and decided to rather permanently move into my lodgings, but that is not what this letter is for.

I know you would rather have letters that are nice to read, and this one will not be that, but I feel that I cannot postpone this letter forever, and so here it is. There is something, there are some things, that I think I should tell you — that I owe you explanations for.

You asked about what I meant, about someone raising you before I did, and you may have guessed, I hope it is not a surprise to you, that in asking that question you also asked the other question I promised to answer someday, about the darkness you don’t quite remember.

There are other things you did not ask about because you could not know to ask about them, but I should not be keeping these things secret from you, and so I will tell you a little more than your questions necessitate. More, too, than you should have to think about when you are already unhappy, but Cosette —

I was telling the truth when I said I am not your father, before your wedding, and it is good that I am not your father, because I am what I am, still, despite everything.

What I mean is. I am a former convict, am supposed to be one still, and I am not your father, but I made a promise to your mother before she died, to take care of you, and I made a promise to the man who saved me from myself, to do the best I could to be good.

This is not a story you should have to know, and so I will keep it as brief as I can. I was in prison for 19 years, and the person I was, at first, when I was free — that person was not good. There was a Bishop who I met, by chance, by pure luck, who showed me that I could yet be good, and so I tried. I tried and it wasn’t enough, and I went back to prison and should have stayed there for the rest of my life, would have had I not made a promise to your mother to take care of you.

Your mother did more for you than I can fathom, loved you more than anything, and her life was very difficult, and she had no choice in many things where she should have had a choice, I think. I did not know her for long. She had to leave you, and this will clear up the matter of the half-remembered darkness, with a family that owned an inn, had to give you into their care so she could work, and the owner of that inn lied to her. I am glad you do not remember, because what I saw of your childhood before I found you was not happy and not kind to you. That is the darkness, metaphorically, and there was also the literal darkness of night, when we met.

You say I saved you, but you saved me too, selfish as that is of me to say. You are the best thing that has happened to me, raising you was the best thing in my life, more than I deserved. I mean this, with all of my heart, more than I think I can ever say. But I know too that that isn’t worth much.

We would have left for England, do you remember, and it was because I thought I had been recognized as the convict I am. This is not a thing that is in the past. And then you had your Marius, and you no longer needed me, and I am in danger and I am a danger to you, and so I left.

That is, I think, most of the story.

I want to return home, to answer your eternal half-asked question, I do want to return, but as you can see, things are not so easy, and after reading this letter you may not wish for me to return after all. I will not begrudge you that. You do not need me, and I have never been someone who should be in your life.

You do not owe me anything, but you promised me once in these letters that you would do your best to be happy. I do hope that you are happy for as long as you can.

— J. V.

—

Papa, there is so much to say, more than you or I could have expected, and I don’t quite know how to say any of it, or where to start — Marius had a visitor yesterday, who told him quite a tale, meant to frighten or to disgust, I suppose, to turn us away from you, only you are already not here anymore and furthermore this man, the visitor, had got it all wrong, and then there was your letter to me.

Marius and I met in the parlor both overwhelmed and with news we didn’t yet comprehend properly, and I think it would’ve been funny to see, but it was not funny in that moment.

I know, I know, you don’t need the whole picture painted, only I like painting pictures, and then too I still don’t know what to make of any of it, and so I will say many things that aren’t quite what needs to be said, before I get to the point.

You saved me, and you saved Marius, and yet you believe yourself unworthy of us — what a silly thought, what an utterly upsettingly ridiculous thing to think, when we both are so grateful to you, and you are so good, and have been so good for so long.

And you did not tell me your story, you did not, only half of it, we had to hear the rest from that horrible man who tried to tell it all wrong, but there is so much more even just that that man could find out, there must be so much more you need to tell me, need to tell Marius too.

You saved him, he says, from certain death. Did you save him for me? How did you know to save him? How can we ever repay you?

I love you, we love you, as our father, regardless of any debts owed, but you did save us both, you did, and I do not understand why you must pretend you didn’t.

I do understand why you say you cannot return, but Papa, there is always a way. If you could save me from my darkness and Marius from death, why should not we be able to save you from this fear hanging over you?

Marius is a lawyer, you know, and knows how to go about things, and he says, has been saying, has been urging me to write you about immediately, that he can procure a pardon, and then there is truly no reason for you to stay away anymore.

Unless you want to stay in England because you have learned to love it, which I would not begrudge you much, only a little, only a very hurt little bit, but even if we have lost you to the English and your farmer friend and the cat that follows you down the street and the greener grass, even then, you will have to visit, and there will be no excuse.

I am not happy here, to answer the last part of your letter, I am not happy and will never quite be, not as I wish I were, and that is partly because I miss you.

There are so many things I should have said in this letter and did not, but these are the most important ones: whatever else you are or were, you are my father. And I miss you.

— Cosette

—

Papa —

you did not answer the last letter, and I do not know if it could have been lost or if your response could have been lost, so I will summarize it for you, and add on to it: you are my father, and I love you, and I want you to come home, and I want you to tell me the whole truth next time and not have me have to find out from some Thenardier trying to tell Marius lies, and you can come home because Marius knows how to procure a pardon for you.

He is nearly done with all that has to be done there, and I have cleaned up the house in the Rue Plumet and its garden in my anxiety about everything, and grandfather is irritated because he does not know why we are anxious, and Marius’ cousin has visited and left impolitely early because this house resembles a coop full of headless chickens, and I have not heard back from you, and I am worried, and Marius is worried, and I am worried.

I am worried about you, Papa. I am worried about you and for you, and I am worried that you do not want to be my father after all, anymore.

I want to be your daughter still, and Marius wants to be your son still.

Please write back.

— Cosette

—

Papa, I do not know why you aren’t responding, and I worry constantly about what may have happened to you, but I will hope that this letter reaches you — we have done all we could and it was more than enough and you shall have your pardon and you shall have your home here if you want it, Papa, if you still want to be my father. You have a place here, and your children, and nothing to fear.

Come home.

— Cosette

—

Dear Cosette, I do know how you dislike short letters, but this one is just to tell you, I will be returning, if all goes well, next week. You shall see me, and I shall be able to see your happiness and your husband’s with my own eyes finally, in just six days.

Until then I remain, yes, do not worry,

your father

P.S.: I have been told in no uncertain terms that Archibald is my cat now. I do not know how he will like travelling, but I will find out, I suppose.


End file.
